


A fortnight

by coffeiine



Category: Wimbledon (2004)
Genre: Bisexual Lizzie Bradbury, F/F, F/M, Post-Canon, hints at the possibility of Bi Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 18:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21202025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeiine/pseuds/coffeiine
Summary: Lizzie Bradbury has fourteen days to win Wimbledon. A fortnight. Can she do it this time?





	A fortnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skimthrough (proofinyou)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/proofinyou/gifts).

> So, this was supposed to be my 2017 Yuletide gift for skimthrough. When I saw the prompt, I rewatched the movie and started on a fic then I realised it had some of my recipient's DNWs in it and I had to scrap the whole thing and didn't have the time to come up with something new and decent in time.
> 
> The prompt was:  
"Wimbledon was my favorite romcom when I was a little teenager, and it still holds up for me. Every time I rewatch it as an adult, I think about how I wish I knew more about Lizzie Bradbury - both her history and her future after the movie fades to black (Peter’s voiceover was not enough!). Any story that mirrors the vibe of the movie and gives me more of Lizzie, I know I’ll love to pieces."  
You also mentioned headcanonning favourite characters as bi, so I totally went for it (while keeping the canon ship safe).
> 
> tl;dr I'm very sorry I didn't make it at the time, and I hope you still have an interest in the film and in this, and that you enjoy it if you ever read it :)

**Day One.**

Grass court season no longer makes her nervous, no. It would be stupid if it did, she's a Grand Slam winner now, she's lifted the US Open trophy last year, at home, in front of _her_ crowd, and if she could do that then, she can do anything _now_.

Also, she's a little bit at home here too, isn't she? An honorary Brit, or she'll be one soon, anyway. She knows Peter has big plans, with that ring he's been carrying all around the globe for months.

She wishes she could play today, the best way to soothe her nerves was always to get on with it.

She can do this. Day one, thirteen to go.

**Day Two.**

As first rounds go, she could have made things easier for herself. She’s a set and a break down, and the look of terror on Peter's face doesn't help. She's tired and grumpy, so she glares at him and he at least has the decency to look bashful. _Time to go back to the 'no sex during tournaments' rule, my friend._

In the end, she fights her way through. Her opponent is younger and promising, but she panics when she realises how close she is to causing a major upset, leaving an opening for Lizzie to come back.

The crowd cheers for her, louder than she expected. They remember Peter's final, and the part she played in it. It's a warming feeling, especially for a foreigner, to be supported to that extent here in London, but it's a lot of pressure too, and she's not sure how she feels about being liked simply because of him. Peter beams at her, relieved and a bit embarrassed at the attention, and she does her best to smile back.

**Day Three.**

It's her day off and it's sunny. Training is fun. It's been fun for a while now, training and playing and _being_ a tennis player on her own terms instead of her father's. She doesn't even want to ask herself where he is now, and what he's doing. She's with Peter and they're shooting at cans to practice their serves, but she hasn't traded one man for another, no. She can do this on her own, she's known it for a while.

The man in her life is there because he makes her feel good, not because he is necessary. She could do it by herself, if she had to. And she'd still be happy. Having that knowledge feels like a bigger victory than winning any tournament.

**Day Four.**

The young woman she’s playing against is _hot. _And it shouldn't be distracting, and it isn't really, because she's winning, rather easily this time, but damn. Shiny hair, curves but also _strength_ and Lizzie's pretty sure the look on determination on her opponent’s face even in the face of certain loss makes her even more attractive than she has any right to be.

She hopes everyone will attribute the flush on her face to physical exertion, as unlikely as it is.

Oh well. Just because she's not single doesn't mean she can't _look_. There's so little beauty in the world, might as well enjoy it when she sees it.

**Day Five.**

She doesn't avoid the subject of her ex-girlfriends with Peter. He's always been chill about it, and has never asked if she'd be willing to 'experiment' or ‘spice things up’, unlike past boyfriends, and for that she's grateful because it would have been terrible to be disappointed in him. They disappoint each other sometimes, sure, but never like that. (She does wonder if anything’s ever happened between him and Dieter, because she has a suspicion that it might have, but if he ever wants to talk about it, he’ll bring it up himself, she won’t push.)

Yesterday's opponent looked a lot like Maria, her first everything. They weren't out in the open, but they weren't hiding either and Maria was _gorgeous _and Lizzie would never forget the thrill of holding her hand and running her fingers through her hair and kissing and licking and biting her skin.

It feels like another lifetime, yet it's in every cell of her body, every day. It's who she is.

**Day Six.**

Third round. A match in three parts, too, because it's been raining all day and she'll count herself lucky if she actually gets to finish it before nightfall. If not, she'll have to come back on Monday – Sunday being the obligatory day off – then play again on Tuesday. She does it all year round, so it's no big deal, but this is _Wimbledon_ and she realises how much pressure she's actually feeling because she needs every single little thing to be perfect and go according to plan.

And for some reason Peter has invited his family today, and Dieter is watching from the cabin where he's commenting for German television and he's waving and Carl is clapping really loudly and they're really not helping and... She bursts out laughing. She knows the cameraman will pick up on that, but she doesn’t care.

Her life has turned into a gigantic ridiculous mess. She’s playing with her hair wet on a secondary court on a Saturday evening because the tournament's staff is overwhelmed, and she's surrounded by her almost-fiancé's ridiculous people, and she's loving every second of it.

**Day Seven.**

Sunday, a family meal in the sunny English countryside. Peter's parents are embarrassing and lovely and she's trying not to think of how much nicer than hers his childhood must have been. Still, it gave her fighting spirit he never had, and that's why she's going to win this. She will, won't she? Everyone says it's her year. She cannot prove them wrong.

'More roast, Lizzie?' Peter's dad asks, snapping her out of her reverie. Next to her, Peter is giggling, slightly tipsy and most likely drunk on the happiness of having all of this. The nerves in her stomach dissolve for a bit.

'Yes, more,' she says.

**Day Eight.**

Flash, flash. Mics everywhere and by now she knows the press room as well as the back of her hand.

'How are you feeling, Lizzie?'

'Has your time finally come, Lizzie? Can you do it this time?'

'When will Peter _finally _propose?'

She chuckles at all the questions, basking in the attention as much as she'd like to run away from it.

She wants to scream YES. Yes, she's feeling fantastic, yes she can win this, yes, she'll say yes when he asks, whenever that may be.

Her biggest 'yes' of the day happens on court two hours later when she smashes the former world number one and moves on to the quarterfinals without having lost a set and a service game since the first round.

Only three more matches to go.

**Day Nine.**

He says the fateful words at 1 a.m when he wakes up because he can sense she's not sleeping.

'You know, about what the reporter said... It's not that I'm not thinking about it. Actually, I've been thinking about it all the time.'

She feels her lips form that endeared smile that's just for him. 'I know. I've seen the box.'

He blushes red. 'Oh, no.'

'The question is, why are you telling me this now,' she asks softly. He rolls over so they’re facing each other and catches her hands in his.

'Because you're perfect and I can't wait. Because if everyone else thinks I'm an idiot for not asking yet, then I probably am one. And because I don't want to steal your thunder by asking on Saturday and making it all about us when it should be all about _you._'

'You sound certain I'm going to say yes. And that I'm going to win.'

‘I’m way more certain of the latter right now,' he chuckles, all nerves. 'Put me out of my misery, please? Will you?'

*

After that, she momentarily forgets about the no-sex rule. How could she remember, when she just _had_ to slide her hands under his shirt and feel his warm skin, had to kiss him until their lips were numb and draw him inside her because _yes_, this was for real. They were going to make it, together.

Of course, twelve hours later, she hates him and her desire a little bit. Or a lot. She's flushed and unfocused and her mind keeps coming back to last night – or was it this morning? – and _shit_, another passing shot she didn't anticipate.

No, no, no. She can't lose in the quarterfinals, not after reaching the semis three years in a row. She's number two in the world, for heaven's sake, she belongs in the finals.

Two tie-breaks and 11-9 in the third. She's exhausted but she's pushed through once again. Only two to go.

**Day Ten.**

Locker room. She's not playing today since there are no ladies' singles matches, but she was here to train and now a few other women are there too, preparing for a doubles' match.

'Hi,' says a voice behind her, shy and confident at the same time.

Lizzie turns around. It's the perfect girl from the second round.

'Hey,' she says, still a bit blinded by her smile.

'I just wanted to say, I learned a lot playing against you the other day, and you were really nice at the net even though I was too nervous to say anything, so thank you. And er, we're all rooting for you to win this. At least I am.'

The woman’s blushing, not like a girl talking to a crush, more like someone trying to convey how much someone they admire means to them, and failing at playing it cool, but Lizzie appreciates it. A lot.

She's reached ‘mentor figure’ status. Wow. Something else to be proud of.

**Day Eleven.**

Semi-finals, she's playing the world number four, a woman she usually beats but has lost to in their last two confrontations. Granted, it was on clay and that's not Lizzie's surface. This is grass, and she can do this.

Peter kisses her cheek and holds her in bed and definitely doesn't try to initiate anything. He's feeling guilty about last time. It's hard to refrain when they're newly engaged and she feels like the air around him is electric and she'll die if she doesn't touch him, but they'll manage. Only a few more days.

The match itself is anticlimactic. The first semi went on for _hours_ and has been dubbed match of the decade, or something, so the spectators are numb and pretty much uninterested when she and her opponent step on court. It's a blessing in disguise, as it feels like practice, almost, and all her nerves pretty much evaporate when she realises no-one actually cares, save for herself, Peter in the player's box, and his brother shouting 'I bet on you, sister-in-law, don't fuck this up', thus letting everyone around know about the engagement.

What kind of family is she marrying into?

Still, she's in the finals. In the fucking Wimbledon's finals.

**Day Twelve.**

'You know what I told Peter before his final?' asks Dieter, who is always hanging around and tries to give tips even though her career is already ten times more successful than his ever was. But he's alright, and it's all said in good humour because he _knows_ she’s better but he’s just trying to be a good friend to her too. Plus she's grateful Peter has someone to hang out with otherwise he's be fussing over her like a bloody mother hen even more.

Lizzie humours him. After all, he's to be Peter's best man at their wedding. 'What did you tell him?'

'To hit the ball back over the net, as hard, and as deep and as often as possible.

'That's...decent advice, if simplistic,' she says, diplomatic.

'That's terrible advice,' Dieter laughs. 'That's why they have me on tv instead of coaching anyone. I don't know what _you_ said to him that day, but it was clearly more helpful.'

She and Peter share a look. The words they shared, and what happened between them during those two weeks had always been part-public, part-secret, and that's what makes it special.

'Truth is, I don't remember what you said,' Peter tells her. 'I was so shocked you were there, that you came back. That, it itself, was the advice.'

'What was?' she asks.

'Fight for what you want. What you love. In your case, what you absolutely deserve.'

**Day Thirteen.**

She tries to commit everything to memory, in case she never finds herself here again. The interminable walk down the corridor, the wait, just behind the doors, the clamor from the audience. It's a bright day, not a chance of rain. The weather should be less merciful for the men tomorrow, but that's their problem.

One point after another. Deep breaths, but don't let her see you shake.

She's not shaking. She's got this.

She knows her father is somewhere in the audience, but she doesn't look for him. She doesn't look at the player's box much at all. It's just her and the green-brown court and the sun and the air on her face.

And hitting that ball as well as she can.

She wins the first set 6-4, breaking early and holding on to it, but falters after that, losing the second 6-7 after her serve betrays her in the tie-break.

Last set, four games all. She can hear the tension in the umpire's voice, the thrill running through the audience, knowing one of those people holding their breaths is Peter. She doesn't need to look at him to know how he feels, she's been through it herself.

She breathes. Hits a winner. Gets the break.

_You're not serving for the Championship, she tells herself. This is just a game. Practice, fun._

_Just serve._

She serves. She wins.

**Day Fourteen.**

She puts on a fancy dress and dances with the male winner. She's to become an official member of the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club, and she's feeling a bit emotional.

Back at the hotel, she looks at papers that have her face all over the front page, and tries to reconcile the blur that was yesterday with the fact that it _is_ her on the pictures, lifting that winner's plate. Her name is engraved in golden letters on the winner’s board, forever.

She didn’t win enough points to make it to number one, but she doesn't care.

She's restless and fidgety and Peter asks 'wanna get out of here?' She nods, knowing where they're going.

They get to Brighton in the middle of the night, kick Carl out of the place. He curses and they giggle and when they're alone they make sure they both forget about the no-sex rule for the foreseeable future.

*

In the morning the press is waiting for them outside like they knew where they would be. Either Carl has tipped them off in retaliation, and because it's his idea of a good joke, or they're both very predictable.

Well, they do this every year, it's true.

Good memories are nice to revisit.

She'll try to revisit that happiness as often as she can in the years to come.


End file.
